Elden Ring. The name alone conjures images of breathtaking vistas, brutal combat, and the slow, creeping dread of utter defeat. For months, I’ve resisted its siren song, a siren song composed of haunting orchestral scores and the guttural screams of vanquished foes. But the whispers are growing louder, and the temptation to succumb to the Lands Between is almost unbearable.

I’ve watched countless playthroughs, devoured lore breakdowns, and meticulously studied weapon builds. I know what I’m getting myself into: a vast, unforgiving world brimming with terrifying creatures, cryptic riddles, and a level of difficulty that borders on sadistic. It’s a game celebrated for its brutal honesty – it doesn’t hold your hand, it throws you into the deep end and leaves you to sink or swim. And yet, that’s precisely its appeal.

My procrastination, however, isn’t born from fear (well, not entirely). It’s more a calculated delay, a strategic postponement of the inevitable mental unraveling I anticipate. Elden Ring isn’t a game you casually dip into; it demands commitment, a relentless pursuit of mastery that can consume weeks, even months. The sheer scope is daunting. I’m currently juggling work, personal responsibilities, and a backlog of other games that are, frankly, far less demanding. Jumping into Elden Ring now would mean neglecting everything else, possibly resulting in a spectacular meltdown – a meltdown fuelled by frustration and the agonizing realization that a colossal tree-like creature just one-shotted me for the tenth time.

So, I wait. I prepare. I mentally steel myself for the inevitable frustration, the countless deaths, and the moments of sheer, unadulterated joy that only conquering a truly challenging game can provide. My descent into madness is delayed, but not indefinitely. The Lands Between are calling, and soon, I will answer. My sanity, however, might not survive the encounter.